


the war is over now - I don't recall who won it.

by OwlBird



Series: The War is Over Now - I Don't Recall Who Won It [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 20:54:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5105399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlBird/pseuds/OwlBird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>one-shots and slices of GRRM's 'bittersweet' futures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the war is over now - I don't recall who won it.

Something began to flutter inside her. To flutter and spread its wings until her body is not big enough to contain it, like a fever, except it isn’t, not like all those years ago in the Eyrie. Though perhaps it was its metaphorical cousin; fatalism has a similar disorienting effect. Doesn’t it? Yes. Yes, it does.

Silence fell as she moved to stand, and Sansa’s chair made a horribly loud scraping sound in the space.

“I’d like to request a song, if I may, Your Grace?”

Sansa feels the chill from the dais like a physical wave.

“If it please Your Grace, it has been so long since I have heard songs from my homeland. If I am not to return there, I would like to hear music that remind me.”

“Yes?”

“Of other lives we have all lived.”

“I see. And who will be your partner, Lady Stark?”

The Hall is silent. Well, not silent. But absent of assenting sounds.

Sansa is ready to dance by herself - she is a Stark and does not bend (not now, not anymore) - when

“I will.” Petyr stands and pushes back his chair in a fluid motion. “If I may.”

The uncertain courtiers strike up the tune. Petyr bends his waist and offers his hand, still too pale (as ever).

Sansa accepts. Though she is a shade taller, he leads (of course). For all a while, all else fades away. No sound, no mocking tones, no sidelong whispers, no hate. And then, absurd as it seems (given all that Petyr is, all that he has done), she feels her family around her. Father, faithful and steady. Mother, fierce and loyal. Robb, strong and beautiful. Arya, grinning and alive. Bran, owl-eyed and loving. Only Rickon; wild, free, no-longer-little Rickon. And it is this, knowing that he was not among her glorious dead, the last, final, piece of fear fell from Sansa. It was all alright. The relief was almost overwhelming, but Petyr held her in strong arms.

The gods do not often grant us mercy, let alone dignity (and why should they? we’re rarely deserving of it). But perhaps a constellation, a freak storm, something else, overrode them then. Or maybe not. Maybe it was just the fatalism that Sansa could not contain, seeping and soaking the Hall. No matter. She danced on. It is rare in this life - in any life - to see someone truly without fear, and knowing. Sansa at last, at the last, was truly beautiful. The silence was no longer murmuring, but breath-held.

She began to dance. Sansa couldn’t help it; her whole body could stand standing no more. Slowly she stretched out her hands, fine fingers inviting the watchers to participate. Slowly she began to twirl her skirts and as if magic, as if the old gods, as if the earth, as if forgiveness and the heavens and the sky and her birds and repentance had forgiven, she heard the music. The crowd faded from her sight as she moved faster, and faster, and faster. Oh gods, it was the sweetest thing.

 


End file.
